The Empty House
by LittlePippin76
Summary: This is my own attempt at an Empty House update, with a view to giving my own ideas about what and why and how relating all the lovely cliffhangers from Reichenbach. As such, this story will contain spoilers for season 2! It doesn't stay sad for long.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my own attempt at an Empty House update, with a view to giving my own ideas about what and why and how relating all the lovely cliffhangers from Reichenbach. As such, this story will contain spoilers for that episode! Read on at your own risk!**

**I'm publishing it complete, and now I can go and read everyone else's theory!**

**The characters are not mine, and I haven't made any money from the publication of this fanfic.**

**Enjoy, and please review. **

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter One

John strolled through the cemetery, wishing good afternoon to the groundskeeper as he always did. He glanced towards his destination, and noted that there was a new grave being dug two plot's down from Sherlock. He felt a moment of heavy depression; sad that someone else had lost someone else, and annoyed that the ground just meters away from Sherlock was being disturbed.

There was something else he noticed too. Mycroft was there, staring at Sherlock's grave.

He sighed, annoyed, and veered towards a bench where he sat down to wait his turn. He leant his cane against his leg.

After a moment Mycroft turned and looked towards him. John gave him a quick, polite nod of the head, and looked away. Mycroft was not deterred, and he walked straight towards John, and sat down with him.

"Good afternoon, John,"

"Good afternoon."

"I didn't expect to see you here at this time."

"Yes you did."

"Yes. I did." Mycroft sighed.

"Thursday at three is my time, Mycroft. Everyone knows that."

"Yes."

"Even the fan-club doesn't come here on a Thursday afternoon."

"Oh, the blasted fan club."

"Thursday at three is my time."

"Yes. I apologise."

"Thank you."

John watched the JCB scoop another huge sod of earth from the ground, and deposit a short distance away.

"I wanted to talk to you," Mycroft said.

"Yes. I know. I knew the phone calls, the texts, and the annoying black car that keeps following me around the streets."

"You don't get into my car. You don't answer my calls or my texts."

John's hand shook, and he clenched it for a moment.

"And what does that tell you, Mycroft?"

"John, I need to talk to you."

"Tough." He got up, and picked up his cane.

"I have a letter for you, John," Mycroft held a small, white envelope out to him.

"I'm not interested," John said. He started towards the grave.

"He left it with me to pass on to you."

John stopped for a second, and stared at the ground. He turned around, snatched the letter from Mycroft, stuffed it into his pocket, and marched off towards Sherlock's grave.

He stood quietly while the JCB finished its work. When all was quiet, he glanced around and then nodded to the stone.

"Afternoon," he said. "I just had a thought." He sighed and smiled. "I know, I know, did it hurt, I thought heard the rusty cogwheels turning and all that, but I can assure you it does happen sometimes. I was wondering whether you think that my sole interest you is because of that thing that you do, and the fact that I find it entertaining. I mean, you do know everything, obviously, but just in case you don't know this; it isn't just that you're clever. I like the clever, but it isn't just that. I imagine that's why I didn't just rush off and idolise Mycroft when you… you know. So just in case you were wondering whether you were nothing but brain, you weren't." John stopped and sighed for a moment. "I'm still not happy with him, you know. I'm still on your side. I know he's lost his brother, but I'm just not able to care about that yet. I'm still trying to work out how to get itching powder into his pants and to put linseed oil into his tea but that plan's going slowly. I think I need someone clever. Right, I'm going to strip you again, to get you nice and ready for the next lot, so feel free not to blush."

John bent one knee stiffly and he started picking up the notes and cards that had been left on the gravestone. There were two new posters from the 'we believe' campaign. John smiled and straightened them. He left them where they were. There wasn't much else today, but the weather had been bad this week. There was a small teddy, which he put it into his pocket, and there was a pot of daisies that looked fresh enough to stay another week. He put them more firmly into the grass in front of the grave, so that they wouldn't blow over if the wind picked up.

He groaned quietly as he got upright again and he stretched for a moment, and then he headed off.

oOo

John read the grave notes as he travelled home. One girl wrote a letter to Sherlock every week. He fretted about her, but had made a conscious choice not to contact her or to write back. He didn't contact the people who left puzzles or clues for Sherlock to solve. He had spoken to someone from the fan-club just once, to politely request that he was given some slight privacy once a week. They'd settled on Thursday afternoons and the fan-club had made it absolutely clear that the cemetery was out of bounds between two and six. So far, John hadn't needed to contact them again over it, and he was astoundingly grateful.

There were other cards expressing the usual sympathies and sadness, and the same protests that people knew that he was innocent, and were unwavering in their belief as to his powers. Two of them had added 'just like John'. He sighed and put them in his pocket. Even the ones he didn't like would be added to the box. He wondered how long people would keep on visiting the grave and leaving notes and flowers.

He wondered how long he would.

He found the letter that Mycroft had given him too. He thought about reading it for a moment, but the thought made him take a long, shuddering breath, so he put it back in his pocket again, unopened.

He wondered whether it was maybe time to shake himself out of it, and perhaps forgive Mycroft. He hardened at the thought. Perhaps he could forgive Lestrade though. He thought about perhaps responding to his next text.

oOo

Mrs Hudson started of as blooming and false cheerful as she always did. She'd made a cake, and John sat down with his cup of tea, and they chatted about the weather, and passed gossip about the people in the Speedy's. There came a time though, when she broke off, and stared out of the window for a while. Usually she'd snap out of it and blink it off, and she'd be back to smiling and charming again. Today she didn't though.

Today she hesitated, and then looked at him.

"John, I was wondering, could I ask your opinion about something?"

"Yes, I would think so."

"Good, thank you. Well, look, I received a letter the other day. Here. It's from the fan-club."

John frowned and took it.

"They want me to set up a blog about Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said. "You know, now you're not writing yours."

John swallowed and nodded. He read the letter. It was politely worded and very respectful, so he was surprised to find his heart racing and his anger building up. He bit his lip for a moment before giving Mrs Hudson a short smile.

"Well, do you want to? Is it something you want to write? I mean, they say here they'll give you technical support and that."

He clenched his fist again. Support for the computer that Sherlock had given her. Pushing themselves into her life, in his place.

"Well, I don't know. I have got some funny stories and that. I had a go at writing one down, just to see."

She picked up a foolscap pad with neat, spidery writing on it, and held it out to him. He took it, but he didn't read it.

He calmed down again.

"Did it help you?" he asked. "Did writing it down help?"

"I don't know. Maybe a little bit. He was a funny man, wasn't he!"

"Yes he was." John tried to keep control of his voice. "And how would you feel about sharing these funny stories with the wider world?"

"That's the thing, isn't it? I mean, I feel a bit sorry for the fan-club now they haven't even got you…" John flinched, but Mrs Hudson didn't notice it. "But at the same time, I'm not sure I particularly want to share him just yet. Maybe later, but not yet."

John nodded and calmed down.

"Well, you could always write them down and just keep them. Or you could email them to me. Maybe it's time for me to start..."

"What?"

"Accepting that he's gone." He swallowed and smiled. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I'd better get on upstairs. Thank you for the tea and the cake."

"Yes, OK then John. I'll write to the fan-club and say not yet, I think."

"Yes. They've been very reasonable so far. It might be worth reminding them that Sherlock didn't seek fame, and that he was quite a private person."

He thought of his own role in Sherlock's fame.

"Good idea. Thanks, love."

John stood up and massaged his perfectly healthy thigh, picked up his cane and headed upstairs. His slow, uneven footsteps on the familiar creaky steps didn't sound remotely familiar. He stopped outside the flat door for a moment, and put his hand on the door handle.

He closed his eyes.

"Please, God, please, please, _please,_" he whispered.

He opened his eyes, and he opened the door, holding his breath.

The room was devoid of anything detective-shaped, and John sighed.

Mrs Hudson had given up on the packing several weeks before, and there were half filled boxes lying around.

Technically all of it belonged to him now. Sherlock's will had been read, and he'd been the sole beneficiary. Mycroft hadn't even attended the reading. John had had it somewhere in his mind to select something to send to him, or perhaps to invite him to come and choose something, but he hadn't managed to get through the anger as yet.

He went to the box on the desk, and he added this week's notes and the teddy bear to it. It was surprisingly full. He gazed around, and looked in the mirror for a moment, and he became depressed looking at the old, pale reflection looking back at him. He noticed Sherlock's violin on the coffee table too, and on a whim, he picked it up and tucked it under his chin. The smell of the polish and the resin were a pleasing memory, and he walked over to the window for a moment. He smiled, then turned and put the violin down on the table, and thought about opening the letter in his pocket. The smiley face and the sofa made his breath catch unexpectedly, and Mrs Hudson suddenly called from downstairs. He leaned to see if he could see her.

A bullet whizzed past his right ear, breaking the window and he fell to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John opened his eyes and looked into the worried face of Mrs Hudson.

"John! Are you OK? I've called an ambulance!"

"I don't need an ambulance," he muttered. "I'm fine." He paused for a moment to check that he was actually fine.

"Your ear's bleeding!" she panicked.

"What?" He sat up, and put his hand to his ear. It came away bloody. As soon as he saw the blood, the pain hit him. "Uh. Right. OK, I'll er… I'd better fix that."

He pulled himself up, and limped towards the bathroom. He tried very hard not to look at Sherlock's shampoo and shaving mirror, and he tried desperately not to imagine Sherlock barging in from his bedroom to disturb him, as he so often had before.

He focussed on the wound. It was barely even a flesh wound and he ran a face cloth under the cold tap to mop himself up a bit.

He opened the door to Sherlock's room and stared into it for a while. He quietly walked in. He looked at the photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft, standing together. They were both smiling. If he hadn't have known them better, he'd have assumed that they were two normal brothers who actually liked each other. He shook his head and limped back out to the living room to find Mrs Hudson sobbing hard on the sofa. He winced.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. I'm absolutely fine."

"I know, I know, dear." Still she sobbed, and John sat next to her and rubbed her back. "It's just me being silly really," she sniffed. "I just thought; this was supposed to stop happening! It was the one and only good thing about him being…" she broke off sobbing again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John."

"No, it's fine, Mrs Hudson," he sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her. "Someone just shot your window, and that's bound to be a bit upsetting." He frowned and bit back the words "especially when the culprit isn't a lovable tenant who will pay for the damage".

Mrs Hudson slowly calmed down to a quiet sniffing.

"OK now?" John asked. "Let's go back downstairs, and I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and call the glazier."

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

"What?" John hadn't actually thought about it. The standard form for when something was shot in this particular flat, was to shout a lot, and then call someone to make a repair.

They both turned, as there was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

John held his breath, and said another quiet prayer.

Lestrade barged in, and John exhaled again.

"John! What happened? Are you OK?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? There's an ambulance following me."

"Yes, I'm fine, I don't need an ambulance. Why are you here?"

"You're bleeding," he said. He pointed, and John put his hand to his ear and found more blood.

"I'm really fine. I'm fine. Er, there was a shot through the window, the glass is… well, it's there, the shot came from on the street, obviously, and from the angle of fire I can tell you… well, absolutely nothing. Sorry. I'm not much help to you."

Lestrade swallowed and nodded.

"Right, well. Ok then. I suppose I should get to work then. I'll call in forensics."

"Not Anderson," John said. "Not Anderson and not Donovan. Please."

Lestrade nodded. "OK, yes, that's fine." He looked at John for a while. "Fancy a pint tonight?"

John smirked.

"I don't know. You haven't texted me yet."

"Yeah, well, you ignore my texts. I thought I might get a clearer answer this way."

"OK. Fine." John's head suddenly throbbed. "Actually, not tonight. Can we take a rain-check? Not forever, just until, I don't know. Tomorrow or something."

Lestarde nodded.

"Sorry," John said. "I've just been shot, you see."

Lestrade smiled and nodded.

"OK, mate, that's fine. Look…" he glanced at Mrs Hudson who made no move to leave. Lestrade cleared his throat and looked back at John. "Look, John, for what it's worth, I think you're right about him. I was wrong to start doubting, and if I hadn't have done, I'd never have let them get to me. And I'm sorry."

"OK." John nodded at him.

"OK. Good. And there's something else too. Just before the paramedics get here, you should know…"

"What?"

"Well, thank you."

"For what?"

"Mostly for punching Chief Superintendent Briggs on the nose. I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do that."

John grinned. Someone shouted from downstairs, and he stood up to go and meet the paramedics.

After a brief, but kind debate, John agreed to get into the ambulance, and the crew drove him around the corner to UCH for stitches and a check up. They also found some paracetamol for him, and he thought he might make them into his next set of firm friends. He considered asking how they'd cure a psychosomatic limp, and whether it would involve running around the streets of London.

The wait for stitches was long and dull, broken only by the strange sight of Mycroft suddenly appearing in the waiting room. He stood still, looked at John, then left again, pulling his phone from his pocket as he did so.

John's ear was quickly stitched by an affable nurse and he thanked her and set off on the long tube-ride back to Wandsworth. He spent ages waiting in Earls Court for the right connection, and he was limping badly and desperately in need of a warm bath and a drink by the time he reached his studio flat.

He let himself in the front door, picked up the new bills that had arrived that day, and carried on up to the second floor. He stopped outside door D.

His flat door was open. It wasn't wide open, so you'd have to be standing close to it to notice, and there were wood chops around the lock from where it had been forced.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't know how he'd have the energy to deal with a break in just then.

He pushed the door open and called a 'hello', instantly feeling silly for doing so. He came fully into the flat, leaving the door open behind him, just in case he needed an escape route, and he flicked the light on.

Sherlock got up and stormed over to him, pushing the door closed.

"John! Where were you shot! Let me see! Mycroft said you were fine, but I didn't believe him! Was it just your ear?"

Sherlock reached out for the bandage, but stopped as John looking pale and shaky backed himself into a corner, gasping.

Sherlock reached out for him again, and he rested his hand on his shoulder.

"John, it's OK. It's fine, it's all fine now."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John shook Sherlock's hand off him and marched across the room. He held his head in his hands for a second, breathing hard, before turning and pacing in the tiny space there was in the room.

"John, it's fine. I'm fine," Sherlock said again.

"No it's not!" John yelled. "It is completely, absolutely, utterly _not_ fine! What the hell?" John fought to gain control of his breath. "What the hell do you think you were doing? What… what possessed you! God! God, do you have any idea? God!" He stopped walking and his legs seemed to give out beneath him as he reached his armchair.

"John, if there had been any other way, I assure you…"

"NO!" John screamed. He heard banging start up from the flat next door and he lowered his voice just slightly. "No, Sherlock, no, you don't behave that way. No, I can't… I can't…"

John's voice failed, and he shook his head again and hid his face in his hands and sobbed, briefly. He stopped himself and took a couple of breaths, which he blew out slowly.

"John?"

"No."

"No what?"

John shook his head and sat on his shaking hands.

Sherlock looked around the room.

"Who shot you?" he asked again.

John frowned. "I don't know."

"It's Thursday, so you were visiting Mrs Hudson, which means you were shot at Baker Street so that's something. On the other hand, you visit Mrs Hudson after the cemetery every Thursday. Did I never explain to you the importance of varying your routine, John?"

John glared at him.

Sherlock paced for a moment before turning to look at him.

"OK, John, I'm sorry. I'd like to think that you'd know that I was sorry, and I wouldn't have to explain it to you, but apparently not. I am sorry. I did what I needed to do, and I'm sorry that one of the results was that you got hurt, but you didn't do what I told you to do!"

"What?"

"I gave you some clear instructions. I told you to tell everyone that I was a lie, and you didn't do that. I told you to talk to Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly. You were right by the hospital and you didn't go and talk to Molly! You just went home! Do you know how frustrating that was?"

"What? Wait, what? Molly?" He tried to shake some sense into his ringing head.

"Yes, Molly!"

"Molly knew about… this?" He waved his hand at Sherlock.

"Yes, I needed her; of course she was in on it. She did most of what was needed, but the last part of her job was to talk to you, and you just left!"

"You could have called me! On my phone!"

"Your phone's bugged, John."

"What?"

"We're nearly sure of it. It wasn't worth the risk."

John shivered and shared at the wall for a while.

"Do you need a drink?" Sherlock asked. "I'll get you a drink." He went to the corner of the room where there was a tiny kitchen area, and he search through cupboards until he found brandy and a glass. He poured out a good measure and handed it to John.

"Thank you," John murmured. He took a mouthful as Sherlock watched him.

"I need one too," Sherlock muttered and he went to pour a glass for himself. He came back into the main room and sat down on the sofa and looked at John.

John wiped his eyes and sniffed and took another drink.

"Why are you crying?" Sherlock asked. "I thought you'd be happy to see me at last."

John shook his head and wiped his face again.

"You wanted me to be alive," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, I felt so, so much pain. It hurt so much." He stopped and tried to control his voice. "And now I feel so stupid. Please leave now, Sherlock." He gulped and took another drink.

Sherlock sat very still for a moment, and then he leaned forward and joined his hands.

"John…"

John shook his head and looked away.

"John, there was a plan," Sherlock persisted. "You were supposed to come into the hospital. You were supposed to check at the morgue, and you'd be intercepted by Molly and Mycroft. It was supposed to take about ten minutes, which was enough time for the sniper to be convinced. You were supposed to go and pass the message on to Mrs Hudson somewhere, but not at Baker Street because they're watching and listening there too, but you didn't, you went straight home."

"You could have…" John's voice failed and he shook his head again.

"I tried. I wrote you a letter, which you burned."

"I thought it was forged," John whispered. He gasped again. "I thought someone was messing with me."

"You wouldn't talk to Mycroft, or Lestrade."

John frowned. "Lestrade knew?"

"Yes. The plan was that Molly and Mycroft would tell you, and you'd tell Mrs Hudson, and then Lestrade, but you didn't, so Mycroft told Lestrade in the hope that you'd start talking to him again soon."

"God."

"Mycroft's been trying to hand deliver another letter to you for the past week! You have it, and you haven't even read it."

"I didn't… I couldn't…" John broke off and took another drink.

"John, I tried. I honestly did, but I couldn't call you and I couldn't come here."

John frowned.

"But you're here now."

"Well it hardly matters now, does it?"

John continued frowning, and then he poured himself another drink.

"I don't think consuming that much alcohol is going to help you make sense of this," Sherlock said.

"Get out," John said.

Sherlock didn't move.

"I mean it, Sherlock, I really do!"

"I thought you wanted me to be alive! You asked for it at least once every day!"

John looked up.

"You bugged me?"

Sherlock's face flickered with doubt for a moment.

"No, John, they were only conversations you wanted me to hear."

John stood.

"Get out! I mean it, Sherlock! Get out!" he paced the small living room again. "Do you know… Have you not yet worked out… God, Sherlock!" He marched up to him. "I don't care. I don't care what it was, or what you were doing; I'd have told you. In the same position, I'd have told you and I'd have done so immediately. Now get out."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then he nodded and stood up. He looked as if he'd liked to have said something more to John, but he didn't. He just left.

John sat down on his armchair again and sobbed again for a moment. He conquered himself again, and reached for his glass. As he did so he noticed that Sherlock had left his phone on the table.

He sighed and stood to chase after him, but he stopped himself. Somewhere in his mind a wheel was whirring, and it reminded him gently that Sherlock obviously knew that he'd left his phone behind.

He assumed that Sherlock had intended John to race after him, so he sat down again.

He stared at the wall for a while, occasionally glancing at the phone on the table, wondering when Sherlock would cave in and return for it. Sherlock didn't separate himself from his phone lightly.

He waited ten minutes.

Again the wheel whirled, and it reminded him that Sherlock would of course have guessed that John wasn't going to run after him this time. If he had left his phone at John's flat, it would be because he wanted John to have his phone.

He picked it up and turned it on. It was locked.

He flung it back down on the table.

The wheel whirred and reminded him of the six months that Sherlock had spent trying to unlock Irene's phone. He knew he'd managed it in the end, though he hadn't shared with him what the pass code was. Mycroft had been ridiculously grateful. He'd sent a hamper with goodies such as would delight Sherlock's taste. Sherlock had just started a five day long sulk though and John had eaten it all. He smiled, remembering.

He picked up the phone again. Logically, if Sherlock had left it here, and he'd wanted John to access it, the code must be something that John could work out.

He tried 2 2 1 B. He then tried M r s H. He shrugged and felt tired and achey. On a whim, he typed in J O H N. The phone unlocked.

He shook his head, thinking that Sherlock must think very little of him if the thought that the only passcode he'd think of would be his own name.

The phone unlocked to a standard screen. John sat back in his chair and looked at it.

He opened the address book. It had two contact name; his, and Mycroft's.

Sherlock didn't need it. He could remember everyone's phone numbers in his head, along with their date of birth (not their birthday, he wasn't sentimental), their address, both postal and email and most of what was in their calendar, so Sherlock didn't bother with contact files. Usually.

He opened the media files and went first for photographs. There was shot after shot of John. Usually they were taken at the grave, sometimes coming in and out of buildings. There was one where he was with Mrs Hudson and John wondered how often he'd opened that one to look at it.

He went back into the media folder and found some sound recordings, each titled 'John' followed by the date. There were three dated today and he clicked the first one to listen.

Sherlock's voice played back to him from the phone.

"Was that a gunshot? John? I'm too far away to hear, properly, John! If someone has shot at you after everything, after all of this, then let me tell you there will be merry hell to pay!"

Recording 'b' was a rant.

"Oh the stupid fan-club! Who are these morons! You should tell Mrs Hudson to tell them to sod off. There's no need for niceties or politeness, just tell them to go away. Haven't they realised that they're a part of all of this? Anyway, Mrs Hudson shouldn't do anything she doesn't want to do. Hell damn it, John, if people weren't interested, this would all have been so much… easier."

He clicked on recording c.

"What are you talking about? The brain's the best thing about me. That's why it's so upsetting when it fails me. There's really not anything else to speak of, but I guess you've always had your whims, haven't you. Linseed oil in tea is a stupid idea, by the way. The oil would float to the surface and the smell would be quite obvious. I have, however, been experimenting with certain plant extracts which would be both undetectable to the human senses, and quite explosive." There was a sigh. "Goodbye then."

John frowned and scrolled through the recordings. There were some like today when there were two or three different files, sometimes only one. He chose one at random.

"Mycroft says just make eggs, just do that, but there isn't even a vague indication about where to start on the egg box. He blames me for the firing of his cook. If I wasn't here, then of course she could be." There was the sound of Sherlock moving around the kitchen and opening cupboards and draws. "What was that thing that Mrs Hudson used to do when I wasn't well? Boiled eggs with soldiers. I liked that. The toast was always just the right width to dip into the egg, and the yolk was always runny enough to coat the toast, but no more than that. They were still in their shells, I remember, so that's easy. Boiled indicates water of some kind, but surely if I just pop them in the microwave it will save on the earth's resources. By which I mean, of course, my time." John listened and when he heard the inevitable explosion, he sniggered. "That didn't work, John! That didn't work at all. Oh, hell, this is going to take hours to clean up." John sniggered again and wiped the two stray tears from his face.

He listened to several more. One, very short one from a couple of weeks after he'd 'died' was sweet in Sherlock's own special way.

"Well this is dull." Followed by a sigh.

John frowned and noticed that there was a weeklong gap between that and the previous recording. He opened it and clicked to play it.

"No, John, you're wrong. I'm not a hero. I'm barely even human. That's how it has to be. Mycroft once told me that caring isn't an advantage and he was right. If you hadn't cared, you wouldn't be hurting now. You wouldn't have been a target for Moriarty. You would have been safe. That's what you told me, isn't it? Friends protect people. So now I have to protect you, and I hate it. And if you could just have bothered to not care, you'd be doing what I told you to do, and telling everyone that I'm a fraud. But you couldn't do that, could you. I should feel flattered by your loyalty I suppose, but it's an inconvenience to me. As to your request, I can't do it yet." There was a long sigh. "I'm going to stop these recordings now. It's foolish. It's a stupid indulgence. I've said goodbye already, and I should just stick to it."

John looked at the phone for a while.

A few days before that was the following.

"You burned my letter! I spent ages on that, getting the tone right, making sure it was clear! It was much better than Irene's 'I'm not dead, let's have dinner,' effort. My god you can be a horribly stubborn sod sometimes!"

He scrolled back to find three on the day that Sherlock died. He opened the first. Sherlock's voice sounded high and strained and completely wired. He was in a room that was causing strange echoes to his voice.

"John, oh god John, oh I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I can't…" there was a second or two of sobbing. "John, please forgive me. Please. You know what's really stupid about all of this, all of _this_?" A sniff. "You remember that doubt thing that I felt that one time? I'm feeling it again, John, I'm feeling it now and I'm… I'm terrified that this might not be the right thing to do. It doesn't feel like…. Just come in, will you. Come in and find Molly and then she can explain! I'm so sorry." Sherlock's voice broke off and there was another sound John couldn't identify and the recording was cut off.

He blinked and took a moment to breathe calmly.

His hand was shaking when he clicked on the second one.

It was a recording of Sherlock's 'note' to him. John clicked it off again quickly, and breathed. He wasn't sure he wanted to relive that moment just yet.

He wiped his face on his hand again.

He scrolled down to the last recording; the first one in the file and took another deep breath before clicking on it.

John frowned as the tinny sound of 'staying alive' sounded, and then caught his breath as the first voice he heard was Moriarty's.

"Oh. Here we are at last…"

John gasped and listened on. He listened to Moriarty's deranged gloating about beating Sherlock.

He heard Sherlock speak for the first time.

"Richard Brook…"

Riechenbach. John wondered how he could have been so stupid.

There was a pause followed by Moriarty; "Good. You got that too…"

John listened to the explanation of beats and digits.

He heard Sherlock's triumph, and felt a strange glow of pride.

"I can kill Rich Brooks and bring back Moriarty…"

John smiled.

Then Moriarty was back, sounding unhinged.

"There is no key, dufus!"

John felt the bottom fall out of his stomach and he paused the recording for a moment. It was all nothing. The whole thing had been for nothing. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

He pressed play again and listened to all of Moriarty's plan unfolding. It was all about this, he realised now. It was all about making Sherlock into nothing and ending it all with his death. He listened to Sherlock becoming stressed and he wished yet again that he'd been on the rooftop with him, ready to take down Moriarty at the slightest signal from Sherlock.

He listened.

"Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."

John's breath caught and he closed his eyes.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"You can have me arrested, you can torture me," Moriarty said. "You can do what you want with me, but nothing's going to prevent them pulling the trigger…"

"Unless I kill myself," Sherlock said. "Complete your story."

John sobbed just once then tried to calm his voice and he forced himself to keep listening.

There was a moment of triumph from Sherlock. A second during which Sherlock believed that he could get the halt signal from Moriarty.

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

John frowned.

He listened to Moriarty. He sounded beaten.

"Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out."

Then there was a gunshot and a cry from Sherlock. He sounded breathless. There were footsteps and the sound of Sherlock panting and breathless. John imagined him pacing around the rooftop, alone and afraid. Once again he wished he was there with him.

Then he heard another voice.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft was there. Mycroft was there with Sherlock.

"It went wrong," Sherlock slurred.

"It doesn't matter now. Have you already taken the poison?"

"Mm."

"During your moment of privacy, I imagine? Well done."

"Mycroft, what do we do now?" Sherlock sounded panicked. He was clearly struggling to breath.

"Remain calm, Sherlock dear. The poison will have started to take effect, don't increase its potency by panicking."

"What do we do now?"

"Two choices. We can go and see Molly with the antidote, or we can revert to plan B."

"Can your men take down the snipers?"

"Not quickly."

"I'll jump then. It's not worth the risk."

"You're already unsteady, Sherlock. Do you think you can manage?"

"Yes. I need to talk to John. I need to call him."

"Sherlock…"

"No, you promised. I need to talk to him. Then I'll do it."

"He's coming here now. Be quick. We need to get you to Molly as soon as possible. The van is in place. We're all ready for you. Perhaps we can bury him in your coffin? That would be apt… Sherlock?"

"I'm fine. I'm just…"

"Go now. Go quickly."

The recording finished. He went back to the previous one and now listened to Sherlock's last message to him. The phone was dropped and the recording was shut off.

John sat very still for a while, staring at the phone. He wiped his face with his hand and sniffed. After a moment he went to his flat door and opened it. As he had expected, Sherlock was standing on the landing just outside of his room.

"You forgot your phone," he said.

Sherlock took it from him.

"Can I come back in?"

John nodded and went back into his flat. Sherlock followed him, closing the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and John sat back down on the armchair. He didn't look at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced around the flat. It was tiny. The sofa was boxy and dull, the kitchen in the corner was small and intruded on the small living space. John hadn't put any books or ornaments on the shelves.

"This is an awful flat," he said.

"It's what I can afford," John replied.

"Mycroft should be paying for it."

"Yes. I put the money back into his account."

"Ah."

Sherlock poured himself another whisky and drank it. He grimaced.

"This is truly terrible whisky."

"Yeah, I know. It does the job though." John poured himself another glass.

"John…" Sherlock started. He stopped and took a deep breath. "Do you…"

"No, I don't want to talk about it now."

"OK." He drank some more whisky. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I haven't decided yet."

They sat quietly and drank for a while. Sherlock listened to the occasional car pass by on the quiet street outside. One slowed outside the house and he tensed for a moment until he heard it drive away again.

"I was thinking about your grave," John said suddenly, after they'd done nothing but drink in silence for about an hour.

"Oh. Why? I mean, you know I bugged it."

"Yes, because you're a prick."

"Technically you were talking to me."

"Technically, I didn't know that."

Sherlock shifted slightly. "What about the grave?"

"I was thinking that it needs more words on it."

"Why?"

"Because it's all bare. It's not enough words for you. I've been thinking it for a while."

"Are you drunk?"

"Bit, yeah." He poured himself another whisky. "D'you think Mycroft will let me put something else on in?"

"You want to put an epitaph on a grave that I'm not in?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well I don't see why not." He took another drink. "What would you put?"

"Hm? Dunno. I was thinking 'Sherlock Holmes. He was an arrogant dick almost all the time."

"Almost?"

"Mm. Sometimes you were… you were getting close to nice."

"Marvellous."

John poured them both another drink.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope."

Sherlock nodded and drank some of his.

"I should probably stop," he said. "I haven't eaten today."

"Have you worked out the principles of boiled eggs yet?"

"No!" He sat up, animated. "It's infuriating. I looked it up on-line eventually, and apparently just three minutes is enough."

"So how did you get that wrong?"

"Time one; I left the water too long it boiled dry. Time two; I put the egg in, then started thinking and forgot it was there, so it boiled dry again, and the egg was hard and then exploded again. Time three; I didn't check the use by date on the egg. It wasn't good."

John sniggered.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Never got the basics quite right."

Sherlock smiled. "Sherlock Holmes; quite good on the complex stuff though."

"Not feelings and friendship and stuff though."

They drank quietly again for a while longer. John poured them more drinks.

"No," Sherlock said. "I really think you've had enough to drink."

"Nope. Neither have you." He pushed a drink towards him, and Sherlock took it.

He suddenly frowned. "Where's your bedroom?" he asked.

"Don't have one. I sleep on the sofa."

"Seriously, this is an horrible… no, it's a, a, a… awful flat. You should move into Mycroft's. It's brilliant. You could cook for us."

"Nice."

"I'm sure you could do something else too!" Sherlock said. "That other thing that you do."

"What other thing?"

"Dunno. That think. It's nice."

"Think?" John sloshed his drink onto his knee and wiped it off with his hand. He then sucked his hand dry.

"Thing, I think," Sherlock said. "That thing."

"What thing?"

"Can't remember. I like it though."

"Oh. Oo, how about "Shlock Holmes. Didn't give smart arse a wide enough dearth. Berth."

Sherlock giggled.

"Sherlock Holmes… nope can't think of one. Can't think at all."

"Sherrrrlock Holmes; can't handle his drink as good as John Watson."

"You've had more thing. Trying. Practise. Can I sleep here?"

"Where?"

"Here. God I don' feel well. Can I sleep now?" He closed his eyes.

"Yep. There's a pillow and stuff. Behind the sofa. Hang on."

He got up and clumsily dragged the bedding onto Sherlock. He stumbled a bit and nearly fell onto him.

"Siddown, John. You're drunk."

"What of it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing." He kicked his shoes off and settled down properly. "Caring," he said. That's the thing."

John sat back down and closed his eyes for a while.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Friend."

Sherlock frowned.

"That's not much. Needs more. At least 'my friend'. Or 'Bloody awful friend.' Or 'Didn't quite grasp the princess… princip… of friend stuff."

John snored quietly, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

oOo

John woke up on his armchair when a heavy thudding, crashing sound entered his consciousness. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock on the floor, wrapped in a duvet and looking mildly bewildered.

"Good morning," John said.

"Yes. It would seem that your sofa is slightly narrower than I am accustomed to." He got up, staggered to the tiny kitchen in the corner of the room, poured himself a drink of water and drank it quickly.

"You feeling OK?" John asked.

"Yes, fine."

"Well I have a terrible headache, so try to keep the noise down."

"Mm. You should have ejected the alcohol last night like I did. You'd feel fine then."

"Yes, it looked very pre-planned and well thought out. Especially the part where you threw up in my shower."

"It was where I'd have positioned the toilet. Anyway, it was your fault. I told you I hadn't eaten."

"It's fine. I'm overlooking you mistaking the shower for the loo, and celebrating the fact that you made it to the bathroom at all."

Sherlock smiled for a second, then he glanced at his phone and then at John.

"Do you understand now?" he asked.

John sighed. "I understand part of it. I understand why you did what you did. I still hold that I'd have shared every part of the plan with you before I acted on it, but that's just because I'm a better friend than you are."

"No, it's got nothing to do with friendship. No, don't look like that. I got it wrong, plain and simple. I got it wrong."

John frowned, trying to get his brain into order. "Got what wrong?"

"I forgot that you're not an obedient person. I thought you'd do anything that I asked you to do. I forgot that you only do that when it makes sense to you."

"Oh, so it's because I'm too stupid to get it."

"No, not too stupid, though yes, quite stupid. No, I've sorry, my head's not working yet. No, I've worked it out; you do what you think is best for me. Sometimes you're right, sometimes you're wrong, but you'll always keep doing it. Oh don't look like that! It sounds better in my head. Do you have coffee? Actual coffee I mean and not this instant rubbish?"

"Oh god, my head hurts."

"Should we go to Baker Street and ask Mrs Hudson to cook us breakfast?"

"Only if we want to kill her. Or she'd kill us. Either way, there'd be bodies."

Sherlock's phone rang loudly on the coffee table and they both winced.

"It'll be Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Just answer it! It's a god-awful noise!"

"You answer it. He'll shout at me."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock huffed and stamped over to pick it up.

"Hello… No, no… Mycroft! Someone shot John!" he shouted. John held his head. "Of course… well you should have thought of that, shouldn't you. Fine. We'll be down in a minute. Have some coffee and breakfast ready." He hung up. "I've been summoned. You can come too though, so that's something."

John groaned.

"Can I shower first?"

"Yep. Mycroft will wait."

Sherlock's phone rang again, and John winced.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered it. After a moment he hung up. "He says don't keep him waiting."

"OK. Quick shower and clean clothes."

"OK, good." Sherlock frowned. "I'll clean your shower first though."

Ten minutes later they were side by side in the back of a black sedan. John raged against the daylight.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked. "You look a bit green."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Though just as a hypothetical question, how bad would it be to hurl in Mycroft's car?"

"Oh it'd be fine. Funny even. You should go right ahead."

"Hm." John closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at Sherlock. "There's something I don't understand."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"And what's that?"

"How you did it. I mean, I looked at you, and you were dead."

"Mm." Sherlock watched the buildings pass by for a while. "How far have you got?"

"A bit. I thought about it a lot since you," He fought for the right word. "Re-appeared, though for most of that time I was pretty drunk. I didn't actually see you fall, did I?" He watched Sherlock's face for a moment. "I mean, I saw you fall, but I didn't see you land. Because you made me stand the other side of that building."

"Good. What else?"

"Um. The cyclist. Was he in on it?"

"Yes. We needed to keep you away for a few moments while I prepared."

"But all the people!" He frowned. "Oh. They were Mycroft's people, weren't they."

"Yes. Again, their task was to keep you away, then let you see what you wanted to see."

"Just so we're clear, I didn't want to see that, Sherlock. That's a vision that's haunted me ever since. I think it always will." He looked away suddenly and took a deep breath.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, and then squeezed John's wrist, gently.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I assure you it was necessary."

John nodded. "Because if I hadn't acted like you were dead, the sniper would have shot me."

"Yes."

"And you don't have much confidence in my acting skills."

"No. I've seen your acting skills; they're appalling."

John smiled.

"Well, that's all I've got. I don't know how you survived, or how you managed to look so dead. Wait, Mycroft said something about poison!"

"Yes, there's a toxin you can get from the rhododendron plant that mimics the symptoms of death. Well, it does for a short while, and then it kills you. I had to time it very carefully so that I could fall safely, but then appear dead when I was on the floor. Only briefly, and it was just in case Mycroft's people couldn't keep you far enough away. You see I did get that bit right. I did tell them that wild horses couldn't keep you away from my body."

"Oh. OK."

"And just to be doubly safe, I'd inserted a small rubber ball into my armpit. It's possible to stem the pulse in one arm with such a trick."

"Thorough. Good."

"And then I was taken inside to let Molly revive me and await you."

"Ah. But how did you just not hit the ground?"

"Mycroft sent a nice truck full of airbags, disguised as a recycling truck. It drove right past you, but as ever you see…"

"But I don't observe. Good. Well done."

"You know, if our roles were reversed, I think I'd be a bit happy to see you alive. I'm just saying."

"Yeah. Well like I say, if our roles were reversed, I'd have told you all about it well in advance."

"Hm."

They fell to silence again, and Sherlock considered squeezing John's wrist again, but he didn't.

John sighed. "Now be a proper friend, would you, and mock me for being so hung-over."

Sherlock smiled. "Ha ha, your head hurts," he said.

John smiled too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Mycroft was waiting for them in the doorway of his country home. His forehead was furrowed with a frown, and his lips were pierced. He looked every inch the indignant headmaster.

John was slightly concerned, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't have quite enough energy to deal with Mycroft just then. He stood by the car staring as Sherlock trotted up the stairs and barged past Mycroft.

"Need to use your kitchen, brother dearest!" He called.

John walked slowly up the steps.

"I see you've abandoned your cane," Mycroft said.

John frowned for a moment.

"Nope," he said. "No, I still haven't forgiven you." He missed Mycroft's frown as he stepped past him into the hallway. "Now, where's your kitchen?"

"Here, John!" Sherlock called and he gave a little whistle.

John cursed at being beckoned in such a way, but he headed down the corridor after Sherlock nonetheless.

Mycroft's kitchen was huge, and when John finally reached it Sherlock was already fiddling with the coffee maker.

"I'll do coffee," Sherlock said. "You can handle the food. It's all there." He waved his hand in the general direction of the rest of the room.

John rolled his eyes and headed towards the fridge.

Mycroft came in.

"Sherlock dear, I'm not sure that John's fully caught up with everything yet."

Sherlock turned around to look at John who was standing by the fridge with a packet of sausages in his hand. He looked back to Mycroft and then laughed.

"He'll work it out," he said. He sat down at the large kitchen table.

"What'll I work out?" John asked.

"No, we need the sausages now. When we've eaten, I'll explain the rest."

John looked at him.

"No," he said.

"What?"

"No. Tell you what, Sherlock. You can cook."

"I really can't."

"Then you need to learn. Here." He threw the packet of sausages lightly onto the table. It slid to a halt just in front of Sherlock.

"Mm." Mycroft said. "They are my only sausages. I'm not sure I want them experimented on."

"Tough," John said. "Like I say, I still haven't forgiven you."

Sherlock smirked, but it fell away when he saw the look on John's face. He stood up and walked towards the cooker.

"OK then, fine. Teach me to cook if it's so important to you to be superior to me."

"You'll need a frying pan. Off you go." John turned to look at Mycroft. "OK, I've worked out that you've got a hand in all of this. Apparently you helped Sherlock die, probably out of guilt for all those things you spilled to… Oh." John breathed out and sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands for a moment.

The coffee machine finished and Mycroft poured a cup for John. He put it on the table in front of him.

"It was all made up," John said.

"It was."

"I would have thought you'd have got that from the first reading," Sherlock said. "I mean, it wasn't exactly plausible, was it? 'Sherlock once lost at chess so threw all of the pieces and his opponent out of the second floor dormitory window'."

"That seems plausible!" John said. "That is exactly the sort of thing you'd do!"

"No sentence that starts 'Sherlock once lost at chess' is plausible. 'Sherlock was once seduced, and led to the back of the bike sheds, where he was set upon and tied up by three older boys'. A sentence that contains 'Sherlock was once seduced' isn't going anywhere sensible. Come on, John. You know me. You know me better than anyone."

"Oh," John whispered.

"Moriarty wanted information about Sherlock," Mycroft said. "But more than that, he wanted to know that Sherlock wasn't as clever as him. I told him about Sherlock's past, and while that was interesting, it wasn't the gold-dust he was looking for. I told him of Sherlock's failures and suddenly all the lights came on."

John swallowed. "Because obviously Rich Brook's story wouldn't have worked if Sherlock was actually always right. He needed to prove that he wasn't." He shook his head and sat back. "Well. I guess I'm the idiot in the room."

Mycroft shrugged. "To be fair, you are in the room with the two of us. Though I think Sherlock's about to ignite the sausages."

"Um," Sherlock said.

John got up and took the pan from him. He adjusted the heat and let them stand and cool for a moment.

"Go and get eggs, and if you've got them, mushrooms and tomatoes. You can make the toast. Let the machine do the work, Sherlock and you can't go far wrong with toast."

Sherlock gave him an apologetic look, but went to get provisions.

John stared at the frying pan for a while, largely to avoid looking at either of the Holmeses. He could feel Sherlock's stare boring into his back, but he didn't turn around until he'd dished large quantities of fried food onto three plates. His stomach growled appreciatively. He finally turned around and handed two plates across to Mycroft and Sherlock, who were sitting side by side at the other side of the table.

Mycroft frowned. "I've had my breakfast."

"I'll have that one then," Lestrade said, coming down the two steps into the room. He slid the plate away from a disappointed Mycroft.

"You could share!" Mycroft said.

"No I couldn't. John? You OK there?"

"Yep." John sat down with his own plate and avoided looking at Lestrade.

Sherlock slid a bottle of brown sauce towards him. John took it and thanked him with a curt nod.

"Right, well, I've brought the ballistics report from the shooting yesterday," Lestrade said. "Oh, that reminds me, how's the ear?"

"Fine," John said through a mouthful of tomato. "Not causing nearly as much pain as the hang-over."

"I'll let you eat then."

"Ta."

Mycroft had already taken the folder from Lestrade and had spread several pictures and reports out on the table in front of him.

"The bullet was Swiss made," he said.

Sherlock grunted and pulled a picture of it towards him.

"Don't get grease on it!" Mycroft snapped.

"It's just a picture!" Sherlock said.

"Even so! You really are incorrigible."

John watched the two of them for a moment, side by side, looking intently at the papers.

"How long have you known?" he asked Lestrade. "About him I mean." He pointed at Sherlock with his knife.

"Two weeks."

"Huh."

"No, not 'huh', John! I tried to tell you. I invited you out every day! You wouldn't talk to me!"

"You could have texted 'I need to tell you Sherlock's not dead'."

"No, he couldn't," Mycroft said. "Your phone is almost certainly being monitored, along with your flat, and clearly 221B."

"Those were the rules," Lestrade said. "Not by phone, not in your flat, not in Baker Street. The only other place you go is the cemetery, and I'd been warned about going there too. I was coming close to arresting you for something just to get you alone."

John frowned. "What would you arrest me for?"

"I dunno. Failure to go out for drinks with a police officer. Considering the way some of them carry on with inappropriate sorts, you'd think that was a crime."

John snorted. "Pass me more coffee, Mycroft."

Mycroft obliged.

"Wait," John said. "You were at my flat, Sherlock. How could you do that if it was being watched?"

"Because he's an imbecile," Mycroft said.

"No!" Sherlock protested. "John was shot, Mycroft! What did you expect me to do?"

John frowned. "You don't care that much, do you?"

"No, you're clearly fine."

"Oh."

"But the point is; someone already knows I'm not dead, so carrying on the façade is a bit silly."

"OK." John drank some coffee. "Actually, no. I'm still not getting this." There were matching glares from across the table. He shrugged and turned to Lestrade. "Greg, are you getting this? Or are they being as obtuse and ridiculous as always?"

"No, I'm with you, mate. I'm still not entirely sure how he's here."

"Oh, that was easy. He poisoned himself and then jumped off a building. Molly put him back together and I assumed she forged a death certificate?"

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "For which there will be no criminal charges."

"Understood," Lestrade said. "Molly Hooper you mean?"

"Yep," John said.

"I wondered where she'd gone. She wasn't even at the funeral."

John frowned. "How did I not notice that?"

"You were otherwise engaged. Also, I was sort of looking out for her."

"Oh. Why?"

Lestrade blushed. "I just worry about her, that's all."

"Oh really?" John raised his eyebrows.

"No, not like that! It's just, she seems sweet and is constantly in danger of getting burned up by him." Lestrade nodded towards Sherlock.

"Mm." John nodded. "It's not his fault though. He clearly tries to put her off. He's never led her on, or even been particularly nice to her."

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe she likes that?"

John frowned. "Molly? You reckon?"

"No! Not like that! It's just, she's very shy, I think. I think it'd be hard for her to have all that attention of someone that intense focusing on her. I think she knows that. I think she spends all her time fantasising about him being vaguely nice to her, because if it was to actually happen and the focus was suddenly on her, she'd probably faint."

John nodded slowly. Then he looked across the table to see Sherlock and Mycroft staring at the two of them with wide eyes and matching frowns.

Mycroft shook his head. "And they accuse us of talking in code."

Sherlock snorted. "You get used to it. Eventually all the inane babble turns into white noise."

"Thanks," John said.

"Fine," Lestrade said. "Tell us about this Swiss bullet. And how does it prove that someone knows you're alive?"

"Oh that's easy," John said. "Moriarty wanted him and/or me dead, and someone's loyal enough to carry out that request even though Moriarty's dead."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Someone knows that I'm not alive and therefore they're going to do as promised and kill John, which would be unacceptable, or just cut out the middle man and kill me directly."

"But which?" John said.

"It would be helpful to answer the question. You were at Baker Street, so that's something. What were you doing?"

"I was… I wasn't doing anything much. I put the notes from the gravestone in the box, and I moved some things around. Oh! I did have your violin briefly."

"So someone might have thought you were me. That's something."

"I don't look anything like you. I certainly haven't grown half a foot."

"The light was on the window," Mycroft said. "It was possible to see a figure moving, but not any definition."

"How do you know?" John asked, before shaking his head. "Because you're watching Baker Street too. Obviously."

"Technically I'm _still_ watching Baker Street," Mycroft said.

"Great thanks. Well, they must know by now that they shot me and not him."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said. "That's why it's important that they establish their target. If they were aiming at you, then you'll have to stay here where you're safe."

"Nope."

"Don't be difficult, John."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Right, is everyone finished? Do you have a cleaner, Mycroft?"

"Both she and my cook were lucky enough to find new places with minor royals on the day that Sherlock came to stay." He sighed. "They'll both be so hard to replace."

"But I'm alive, so hurray!" Sherlock said.

"Good," John said. "Sherlock, you wash up."

"I'm still not following something," Lestrade said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well maybe we should get Molly Hooper back from Bath to explain it all to you."

"Washing up, Sherlock." John said.

Sherlock got up and gathered up the plates.

"Why stay dead?" Lestrade asked. "Moriarty is dead; his snipers left us all alone, so why didn't Sherlock just resurrect himself then?"

"Moriarty had a large network, Lestrade, you know that. Some of them remain loyal even to this day. As John's ear shows us. We delayed for three months the shot that eventually hit John."

"Why now though? What's given Sherlock away?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "This information is shared by a very few. Sherlock hasn't been leaving the house, I suppose, though I can't imagine it, Molly Hooper may have…"

"No," Sherlock called from the sink. "Pretty much anyone else is more likely. There were eight people involved on the floor and at the hospital. It's much more likely to be one of those. Molly wouldn't."

"Well someone, anyway," Mycroft said.

"But what was the whole dying stunt about?" Lestrade asked. "You had Moriarty! You had him in a cell! If you wanted him off Sherlock's back you could have just kept him in the cell!"

Mycroft smiled faintly. "Yes. The problem was that Moriarty had something that we want."

"What?"

"The computer code," John said. "The computer code that could unlock every computer in the world. It didn't exist though, but that's what you wanted."

Mycroft looked at him for a while and then turned to Sherlock who had loaded the plates into the sink, and then walked away, disinterested.

"No, I'm sorry," Mycroft said. "I don't quite understand how you cope with this at all."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. He sat down again. "John, the computer code never existed. The idea of there being one code that can hack into every computer is ridiculous. The idea that it can be contained within a few simple lines of binary is imbecilic. The idea that I wouldn't recognise Partita number one from its rhythm is frankly insulting. We knew it didn't exist John. We knew from the beginning."

"Then why…?"

"Because Moriarty had something that we wanted," Mycroft said. "In the days when we had Moriarty contained, it was clear that he had something of value to us. When I started to drip feed to him interesting morsels of Sherlock's life, he very nearly gave it up. He was clever though, and suddenly made up this interesting notion of the computer key. I realised then that it was so ridiculous that it couldn't possibly exist, but while he continued to talk about this key he wouldn't be swayed from it. So we let him go."

"But then…" John started. Sherlock nodded at him from across the table. "But then, he made the key. Or he made something that made it look like the key existed."

"Right," Sherlock said. "And then he tried to sell this fictional key along to various sordid governments."

Mycroft smiled. "And at that point we knew that he was in trouble."

"Why?"

"Because eventually…" Mycroft started.

"No, John knows this," Sherlock said.

John frowned. "No, Sherlock, no I don't, and it would seem that no matter how glad I am that you're alive, I_ still_ don't like being made to look stupid!"

"You're not stupid. If you didn't know, then I wouldn't ask you to utter it."

John sighed.

Lestrade frowned. "I'm missing something entirely here, aren't I?"

"Probably," Sherlock said. He continued to look at John.

John shifted for a moment and shook his head.

"Because…" he started. "Because Moriarty had said that he'd got something. He'd advertised it with those three break ins…" He looked up at Sherlock. "And sooner or later, he'd have to hand the goods over to the people who wanted it."

Sherlock smiled. "More coffee?" He stood up and went to refill the coffee maker. John had a sneaking suspicion it was so that he could hide his 'proud' face. He smiled and sat back in his chair.

"Sherlock and I met on the first evening of the court case," Mycroft said, "when it had become apparent to both of us what was happening. At that time, Sherlock agreed to help me reel Moriarty in again. Moriarty wanted Sherlock; nothing else would do. Sherlock became the bait we used to trap him. We knew we were getting close when the surveillance net around Sherlock tightened. Moriarty was getting jumpy; he desperately wanted Sherlock to die, but if he did so, then Moriarty's clients would turn their back focus to him. Our hope was that when Sherlock was prepared to take death, he would be more cooperative with us."

"God," John said.

"But didn't Moriarty die?" Lestrade said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock sniggered briefly.

"OK, hang on, let's ignore that," Lestrade said. "The question at the moment is what to do about this man who wants to shoot Sherlock?"

"Or John," John said.

"Well yeah, I'd prefer you didn't die either."

"He's after me," Sherlock said. "I'm sure of it."

"Yes, I think we can safely assume that from the fact that John isn't dead." Mycroft said. He gathered up the papers and photographs from the table, put them back into their folder and handed them to Lestrade with a smile.

"OK," Lestrade said. "So what do we do about that?"

They all paused in thought for a moment.

"We could just let him shoot Sherlock," John said.

"Bit harsh," Lestrade said.

Sherlock came back to the table and leaned on it, staring at John. Mycroft stared too, frowning.

"We'd need Mrs Hudson's help," Sherlock said.

"And some kind of access," Mycroft said.

"What, really?" Lestrade said. "You'd actually do that? You'd let someone shoot Sherlock?"

Mycroft smiled at him.

"Willingly," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

Lestrade was dispatched to retrieve Mrs Hudson, then to gently prepare her for Sherlock's presence, and to bring her back to Mycroft's house. He was to stop at John's flat for clothes for him too.

Mycroft muttered something about staying home with the children, and he locked himself in his study.

Sherlock looked at John for a while.

"It'll probably take a few days to set up," Sherlock said. "Will you be OK staying here with us?"

John looked around at the opulent surroundings.

"Yeah, I'll probably cope."

Sherlock grinned. "I'll show you to a spare room," he said.

John followed him up a wide staircase.

"Mycroft's room is at the end down there," he said, pointing down the hallway. "It was our parent's room. The bed was barely cold from Mummy's death before Mycroft moved in."

"You grew up here?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes."

"Oh. I just assumed Mycroft earned some money from being ruler of the world and all that. So you're like…"

"What?"

"Rich?"

"I come from a rich family." They'd reached the other end of the corridor. "That's my room," Sherlock said, nodding at a closed door. "You can have that room if you like." He nodded at the door opposite.

John went in. There was a large, unmade, bed, a dresser, huge mahogany wardrobes, a door that clearly lead to a bathroom, a fireplace on one wall, and two large sash windows.

"Is it OK?" Sherlock asked. "There are other spare rooms if you prefer."

"No, this is fine. It's fine, thank you, Sherlock. This is… well, this is bigger than my flat."

"I can light a fire in here if you want, if you're too cold."

John turned and smiled. "Do you mean intentionally, or by accident."

Sherlock grinned. "Either."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I've slept on a mountainside in Afghanistan in a tent that really wasn't up to the job. This is fine."

"Well I'll find you some bedding. I should shower and change too. I stink."

"That's true."

Sherlock smiled again and left him alone. He was back a few minutes later with armfuls of pillows and sheets.

"Here," he said. "I'll make up the bed."

"No, it's fine," John said, yawning. "I've got it. You go and sanitise yourself."

Sherlock nodded and left again.

John made up the bed and sat on it for a while. He went to look out of the window. He imagined a small Sherlock playing in the extensive garden, and perhaps in the fields beyond. A plane flew overhead, startling him for a moment, and then he realised they must be quite close to Heathrow Airport.

There was a knock at his door and Sherlock came back in. He'd showered now, and was dressed in familiar pyjamas and a dressing gown.

"I should have said, you should feel free to look around," he said. "Snoop if you want to. There's quite a good library in the middle of this floor if you're bored."

"I'm fine."

"OK." He turned to leave again and then came back. "Do you want to see my room?"

John frowned. "OK then."

He followed Sherlock into the hall and he headed towards Sherlock's bedroom. He frowned when he noticed Sherlock was walking away.

"Not that room," Sherlock called. "That's the room I moved into when I was thirteen, and it's dull."

John followed Sherlock back along the hallway, and up a second set of stairs. These ones were narrower, and John got the impression they were heading up to the servant's quarters.

He followed Sherlock into a new room and grinned.

"We slept through there," Sherlock said, pointing. "This is the interesting part though."

The Holmes family nursery was indeed an interesting room.

There was some fairly standard fair in it. There was a rocking horse of dappled grey with a cowboy hat perched on its head. There were shelves with large, die-cast cars of different types and specifications.

"Mycroft's," Sherlock said when he saw him looking.

There were vats full of Lego, and a bench with various pieces of scientific equipment on it, with a poster of the solar system above it.

"Oh!" Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The Earth does go around the sun! You were right! I'd entirely forgotten it."

"There's a telescope too!" John said. "You must have spent some time looking up at the stars."

"No, that was Mycroft's. I always thought that the more interesting sights were much closer to the ground. The microscope was mine. I used it mostly to look at insects and some plants."

"And that's yours," John said. He walked over to the corner where there was a… thing. The closest description he could think of was 'play house', but this one was shaped like the bow of a boat, sticking out from the corner of the room, with murals of sea and desert islands painted onto the wall. It even had a little pretend sail made from black canvass, with a skull and cross bones sewn onto it. Sherlock came over and looked too. He turned the little ship's wheel at the front of it, and then went to look out of the window.

"Mycroft kicked up a stink when it was put in," Sherlock said. "He thought it was too silly and juvenile. I must have been four, so he was ten and feeling he was above all of this. I loved it though. You see, I was a normal little boy once."

"You're normal now," John said. "You're just being normal in your own, unique way."

Sherlock smiled.

"You know, Mycroft told me that emotions are a burden, that they're unnecessary and destructive. For a while, I believed him. He surprised me though."

John looked at him.

"How so?"

"The things he told Moriarty. They were all lies. Some were close to the truth but… he could have told him about the pirate ship in my playroom, or the time I climbed up the old oak and got stuck and couldn't get down, or the time when I accidentally set fire to the stable block. I was normal once. I was ordinary. That was what Moriarty wanted, but Mycroft told him lies instead. Why did he do that? Was it because he actually cares about me?"

John looked at Sherlock's furrowed brow and intense face and he smiled.

"Yes, Sherlock. It would appear that Mycroft does actually care about his little brother."

"Why though? Why bother telling the lies when you have access to the truth?"

John sighed and sat down on a small table by the window.

"Maybe it's because Mycroft, like me, is proud of you, Sherlock. That's an awfully hard thing to give away."

"Proud?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Yes, proud. You're absolutely not an angel, but you've at least chosen the right side to be on, Sherlock. You're brilliant, you are extraordinary. It would be a very hard thing to give that all away. From what you've said before, Mycroft virtually raised you. He's impressed with how you've turned out. You might annoy or irritate him most of the time, but when it comes down to it, you've done the one thing he hasn't been able to yet."

"What's that?"

"You've chosen as side."

Sherlock sighed and shrugged.

"Well, I'm glad you've got some theories anyway," he said. "It still makes no sense at all to me. Oh! Mrs Hudson's here!"

He darted from the room and down the stairs, jumping the last four and landing with a loud bump. John heard Mycroft bellow an admonition, and he suddenly gained insight as to what life was like in this house while Sherlock was growing up. He got up and went downstairs.

Mrs Hudson had dealt with the shock better than he had hoped for. There were moments when she was jumpy and startled, and at one point she took hold of Sherlock's dressing gown sleeve and held on to it for a full five minutes while babbling almost incoherently. John could see Mycroft getting impatient, but he didn't speak out.

Sherlock just let her hold on to him and hug him several times, and he quietly assured her that he was both sorry and fine.

"It was John's fault," he said at one point. "He was supposed to find out and tell you."

She stared at him.

"No, Sherlock," she said quietly. "No, dear, John hasn't done anything wrong. You know that, don't you?"

Sherlock had blushed and nodded.

"Now where's your kitchen, Mycroft? I'm sure we'd all like some tea.

Sherlock led her back down the corridor to the kitchen and he sat down with John while she fluttered around the cupboards. Mycroft stood in the doorway and watched.

"You've no biscuits!" she said. "No biscuits, no cake, nothing here for us at all! How do you cope with stress?"

"There is a pantry at the back there," Mycroft said.

Mrs Hudson bustled into it, talking to herself. Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a moment, and then with a sigh, he filled the kettle himself, and turned it on with a pained look. Mrs Hudson emerged again, carrying eggs, sugar and a tin of flour.

"Whoever sorted that out knows how to stock a pantry, Mycroft Holmes. You're a lucky man. I'll have us a cake ready before you know it." She set herself to the task.

"So what's the plan?" John asked. "Will Mrs Hudson stay here too?"

"No, I'll go back home after I've cooked you a spot of dinner," she said. "I haven't watered my plants today."

"Will you be able to act like normal?" John asked. "Are we still pretending Sherlock's dead?"

"I think it's worth doing," Mycroft said. "At the moment, the news is contained. I suspect it's known to a very small number of people."

"Mrs Hudson will be fine," Sherlock said, playing with the sugar-pot on the table.

He was clearly daydreaming now, and John wasn't surprised to see him absently lifting the sugar spoon to his mouth, and eat a spoonful of sugar.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked, and Sherlock guiltily dropped the spoon.

He swallowed and glared at Mycroft.

"How long will this all take?" he asked. "I want to go home."

"I'd love you to go home," Mycroft replied. "I've contacted Madame Tussaurds and sent them pictures and measurements. They say it won't be an exact replica without having you there in person, but I chose speed over precision."

"Good choice," Sherlock said.

Mrs Hudson put her cake in the oven and came to sit down with them. She brought a full teapot with her.

"Mrs Hudson, you'll have a job to do there," Sherlock said. "We'll need you to go in and move the dummy a few times. Not regularly, I wasn't that much of a fidgeter," he glared at John who had snorted. "But you'll need to do it carefully. You'll have to go in on your hands and knees, and stay below the line of the windows. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes, of course I can, Sherlock."

"How will we get it in there in the first place?" John said. "The place is being watched."

"I can probably arrange a power cut." Mycroft said. "Localised and brief. It would be enough time to get it from a car into the building. We'll need the lights on quickly though. And it would be a touch obvious if the lights went off and when they came back on, lo and behold, Sherlock is back in the building."

"I could carry it upstairs," Mrs Hudson said.

"It'll be heavy," John said.

"Yes, you'd carry it as if you were carrying a wax mannequin," Sherlock said. "What we need is someone who…" He glanced at John.

"What?" John asked.

"John, I wonder if you could..." he searched for the word. "Could you handle the dummy across the room."

John frowned.

"I think it might work," Sherlock said, staring at the sugar bowl, "if you sort of... _embrace_ the dummy across the room and onto the chair. It might look real if you look like…" he blushed deeply and stopped talking.

"Oh!" John said. "Oh. Well yes, I probably could amorously manhandle you across the room and into a chair."

"The dummy," Sherlock said.

"Yes the dummy."

"People will talk," Sherlock said.

"People talk anyway. It doesn't seem to make the blindest bit of difference what we actually do."

Sherlock breathed out and calmed down.

"He might get shot though," Mycroft said. "If they take the first opportunity."

"I'm prepared to risk it," John said.

"I think you're right," Sherlock said. "Human nature. I'm fairly sure that any gunman would delay shooting me for the chance of seeing John and I…" he blushed again.

"And then what?" John asked.

"Then you leave, and come to find me," Sherlock said.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

In the end, they decided that Thursday would be the best day for their plan. That way, John and Mrs Hudson could stick to their usual routine, so as not to attract too much suspicion. Seeds were sown, however, visible to the more intelligent members of the criminal community, that Sherlock might well be back. Packages were delivered to 221B again. Mrs Hudson spent some time unpacking the boxes, and she dusted and cleaned, and she even lay a fire and flung open the windows to air the flat, ready for someone to stay.

John and Sherlock spent the time together at the Holmes family home. A new cook was hired, which relieved some of the tension in the house, and they spent the time walking about the surrounding countryside, looking at Sherlock's old haunts, or reading in the library.

As Thursday dawned, John was starting to get a little jumpy.

"Are you sure you won't actually be shot?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "Of course I won't be shot. How could I be shot? I'm not even going to be in the right house!"

Mycroft had clicked his tongue from the other side of the morning room.

"Why does he keep asking the same question over and over again? He does so even when the answer is startlingly obvious!"

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock had replied.

They'd said goodbye after lunch, and John had been driven to the cemetery with a small bunch of flowers for Mrs Hudson and a potted geranium for planting on the grave. He managed the second task quite ably, feeling only slightly bothered that he was technically planting flowers on Moriarty's grave. He spent a little extra time worrying his fingers around the base of the stone until he found the tiny microphone that was hidden underneath it.

"Got you, you sod," he mumbled, putting it into his pocket.

He removed the notes from the grave as he always did, and headed to the tube station.

Mrs Hudson let him into the house quietly and politely. They went to sit down with tea and cake as they always did. John glanced across at the pile of clothes she had selected for the mannequin.

"You went for the white shirt then," John said, smiling.

"Well it doesn't fit him anymore, does it!"

"No, I've noticed that too."

"He won't listen though. He told me once that I must have washed it on hot. I didn't wash it on hot."

"I know."

"He never listened."

"Nope."

John went out to get them a take away and they settled down to watch Eastenders and wait.

They'd managed to watch just enough for John to want to put his foot through the screen, when suddenly the lights and TV flickered and went out. John went to the window to double check that the streetlights were out too.

Mrs Hudson was lighting some emergency candles when they heard the knock at the back door, and John went to open it.

"Here he is," Mycroft said heavily. He puffed as John took half of the long package that he was carrying.

They left it on the Mrs Hudson's living room floor. Mycroft nodded once and hurried out.

A few seconds later, the lights flickered on again. Mrs Hudson drew her curtains and John started cutting packing paper from the package. He unwrapped the head first.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson said. "They haven't done a very good job, have they!"

John glanced at the curly mop of hair and the pale eyes.

"Well, they were quite rushed," he pointed out.

"Are his eyes actually that far apart?"

John shrugged. "Mycroft sent measurements."

"I don't think his cheekbones are that prominent. He looks positively gaunt!"

"Well, he's all we've got to work with now. Right, let's see the rest of him? He's apparently on a standard torso that we can move his limbs position him. He certainly looks tall enough."

He took off the rest of the packaging and revealed the rest of the dummy. It looked like a better than average shop front mannequin, with a passable imitation of Sherlock's head and neck attached to it, and it was wearing a long white body stocking.

They both looked for a while.

Mrs Hudson frowned. "Do you imagine he's anatomically…?"

"I really don't want to check. Let's get him dressed; pass me the trousers."

She passed them to him. John struggled to get the tight fitted trousers over the mannequin's hips. He'd worked up quite a sweat by the time he was buttoning him up.

The shirt was even more of a struggle. They'd only managed one sleeve when there was a loud ripping sound and John stopped. He caught the look on Mrs Hudson's face and they both dissolved into giggles for a while.

"Should I get a spare?" Mrs Hudson said, eventually.

"No," John said, wiping his eyes. "There's no point ruining two, and I can at least get it on the other arm now. Have you got a jacket I can hide it under?"

"Yes, I got the velvet one."

"I ruddy hate the velvet one."

"I know, dear."

The fake Sherlock was finally ready and they sat him down on one of Mrs Hudson's armchairs. They both started giggling again.

"We'd better stop," Mrs Hudson said. "Sherlock will be getting ever so impatient. Are you ready for your star turn?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Well you're looking flushed and sweaty already, so that's a good start."

They both giggled again.

"OK, come on then, darling," John said to the mannequin. "Let's go."

He lugged the dummy up and started carrying it upstairs. It was both heavy and unwieldy, and by the time John had reached the top of the staircase, there was sweat running through his hair. He stopped to rest at the top of the stairs, and spent a moment working out the best way of progressing.

He was aware that his climb up the stairs hadn't been particularly life-like. Though he had clung on to fake Sherlock quite tightly, fake Sherlock hadn't even moved to touch him even slightly.

He adjusted the dummy's elbow and wrist so that it was more in keeping with holding somebody's waist, and he slipped his jumper and shirt over it. He was reasonably sure that from a distance it would look as though the dummy was doing some excellent groping. He sniggered and manipulated the other arm in a similar fashion. His movements were more restricted now, so he could only tuck a couple of fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

He wrapped his own arms around the dummy, stretching one upwards and tucking it under the dummy's armpit and the other just had to hold on to whatever he could manage.

He slipped his feet under the dummy's and started walking slowly into the living room.

He had to stop quite quickly, overcome by a fit of the giggles, so he hid his face against fake Sherlock's neck. He calmed himself and started again, but stopped quite quickly when he almost dropped the mannequin. He took a moment to think about what to do next. He opted for scratching down the area of fake Sherlock's fake spine, and then thrusting his hand under the jacket and into the back of the waistband to grab on there.

He also decided that speed was important now, and he pushed fake Sherlock quickly across the room, and onto Sherlock's armchair, where he fell on top of him, panting into fake hair.

He rested only for a second before kneeling in front of the chair. He almost rolled his eyes, but decided this would be a touch obvious to the outside world, so he steeled himself, and the ducked down, so that it might look as if he was, maybe, nuzzling fake Sherlock's belly. From that position he straightened out all the relevant limbs.

Fake Sherlock was now sitting still, and quite unaided by him. He felt a wave of relief that he had finished. This was followed by an equal wave of doubt, as he realised he didn't quite know how to move from here so that it would look natural.

He pondered for a minute, then he giggled again, and he ended with moving quickly up to kiss fake Sherlock on his completely unresponsive lips. He turned and walked away.

At the doorway he turned to grin, and as an afterthought, to wink, and then he pegged it back downstairs to Mrs Hudson's flat. He dashed in, leant against a wall and covered his glowing face with his hands.

"Oh God," he said. "Oh I'm so glad that's over."

"Sherlock will be pleased I'm sure," Mrs Hudson said. They caught each other's eye and started giggling again. "Oh I didn't mean…" she said. "Oh, John! It's just because he's been waiting so long!"

John laughed so hard he had to bend double briefly.

"OK, OK, I'm fine now," he said finally. "I'd better go. Now remember, stay low to the ground. There's only the lamp on, so you've got lots of shadows to work with. Just stay safe OK?"

"OK, John. I'll be fine. And I'm glad to know you set the mood well."

John snorted and sniggered again. "Oh, please, Mrs Hudson! Don't make me laugh again. I'll see you later, OK?"

She saw him out and he set off on a brisk walk around the building. He had been instructed to take the long route around the road, right down to the end, and then up the back of the opposite side of the street.

He found the back of number 220 and was surprised to see that it stood out, bright and newly built, against the other houses in the terrace.

"Oh, the bomb," he breathed. He scaled the back wall and dropped into the small yard and headed towards the back door. Sherlock opened immediately that he got there, and pulled him inside. The door closed with a click and John was shut into darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

John blinked for a moment, but his vision failed to clear.

"It's very dark," he whispered.

He could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Fortunately," Sherlock whispered back, "I have excellent night vision. Yours, I imagine, has been permanently damaged through too much mood lighting."

"Technically, that should make it better," John said.

"Shut up, and come on."

He grasped John firmly by the wrist, and slowly and calmly led him through the house. The layout was slightly different to the other side of Baker Street, and John found he was quickly disoriented. He bit back questions about whether Sherlock was sure that the expected gunman wasn't here, and whether he was sure that he would be here at some point.

"Stairs up," Sherlock murmured.

John followed him up the stairs, his free hand using the balustrade for guidance.

Sherlock led him quietly to a room at the front of the house, and let go of his wrist. There was some light now, largely from the streetlights outside, and John could clearly see that the room was in use, or had been recently. There wasn't much there, but there was a chair, and several boxes, one of which was being used to hold a small, portable radio. There was bedding in the corner.

Sherlock walked through and stood by the window where he had a clear view of the front of 221B. He remained in the shadows.

John went to stand by him and he looked at the back of fake Sherlock's head. He moved suddenly and John jumped despite himself. He held his breath for a moment.

"She'll be safely out now," Sherlock whispered. "We'd better move."

"Aren't we staying here?"

"There's nowhere to hide. The repairs upstairs aren't quite finished yet, so we can stay there safely. It is a shame, but it'll have to do. Let's move now. My doppelganger will have been seen by now, and the word will be out for Moran to come."

"Moran?"

"Later. Let's go upstairs."

They walked quickly and quietly up the stairs and into another room, directly above the one where Moran appeared to be based. This one was cluttered with workmen's tools. There was a trestle table in the middle of the room, with pots of paint on it. There were no nets or curtains, and Sherlock quickly went to the window and squatted down by it. John joined him.

They looked again at the mannequin. The Baker Street room was still only dimly lit, but the silhouette was quite clear.

"I watched your performance from up here," Sherlock whispered.

"How did it look?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Well practised,"

John grinned.

"You appeared to find the whole thing thoroughly entertaining, anyway. I'm mildly insulted."

John frowned at him.

"No you're not."

"No. I'm not."

John grinned again and they both turned to look at Baker Street again. He shifted position slightly so that his legs didn't go to sleep when he wanted to move. After a while, he shifted again.

After about forty-five minutes, Sherlock started gnawing at his finger nails.

An hour later and John was beginning to wonder if they'd made some sort of mistake.

Sherlock was alert though, and he suddenly sat up. John sat up too, but didn't question him. He just watched his face.

Sherlock pointed to the ground and John closed his eyes to listen. He finally caught the sound of someone walking up the stairs to the first floor. He heard their footsteps walk across the room below, and the sound of things being moved. Eventually a window opened.

John looked back to Baker Street and saw the mannequin move again. Just slightly, but a clear move.

"Mrs H…" he started to whisper, but Sherlock shot him a warning look, and he fell silent again.

John suddenly became aware that Sherlock was holding onto his wrist tightly, and he could quite work out how long he'd been doing so. He didn't mention it.

They stared out of the window again and waited.

When it came, it was sudden.

A muffled gunshot, a breaking of glass, and Sherlock, leaping up and darting from the room.

John was after him quickly, but his foot snagged on a sheet of crumpled plastic on the floor. It only took him seconds to untangle himself, but he cursed as he ran downstairs.

When he got to the first floor, he found Sherlock, pale and eyes bulging, with his hands to his neck and an unknown man standing close behind him. John couldn't see it, but it took him a fraction of a second to deduce the presence of the garrotte. His gun was in his hand instantly.

"Drop him," he commanded, but the wire was tightened.

"…live," Sherlock croaked.

John spun the gun in his hand and using the butt, he delivered a swift blow to the garrotter's temple.

It was effective and dropped immediately, landing on top of Sherlock.

Sherlock was horribly still.

"No, no, no, no, no…" John muttered as he shoved his gun back in his waistband and dug Sherlock out.

Sherlock thrashed and choked suddenly and sat up.

John assessed the bleeding quickly and could relieved to see it was just an abrasion.

"Oh thank God," he muttered, breathing hard, and he pulled a surprised Sherlock into a firm hug, his arms wrapped clumsily around his neck.

"Oh thank God," he said again. "No, no, no. Could you please just stop dying, Sherlock? I've only just got you back from the first time."

"I didn't die," Sherlock said, somewhat hoarsely. "I'm fine, John. I'm fine."

John didn't let go.

There was the sound of more footsteps and shouting coming from downstairs, and Lestrade arrived along with Mycroft and a number of uniformed police.

"We're not alone," Sherlock mumbled to John.

"So?"

"People will talk."

"So? You don't care what people think."

"Actually, my neck's hurting a bit now."

"Oh. OK then." John released him.

Lestrade helped the both up, frowning and wincing at the wound on Sherlock's neck.

"Moran," Mycroft said.

"Apparently," Sherlock replied. "Either a very small network, or he just wanted the pleasure of killing me himself."

"Well, we might not have been able to crack Moriarty, but I'm fairly comfortable with the task of cracking him. Well done, Sherlock. And thank you."

He held out a hand, and Sherlock shook it, curtly.

"Wait, you still think he's got something?" John asked.

"Absolutely," Mycroft replied. "This is Moriarty's number two. The line of succession has always been quite clear. Inspector Lestrade, after you."

"Right, good, you can take over now," Sherlock snapped. "I need to go and check on Mrs Hudson."

He left briskly, still wiping blood from his neck as he went. John followed him.

oOo

Later that evening, they were all back in the living room of 221B. Mrs Hudson had lit a fire, and John had patched up Sherlock's neck and then tacked the emergency board back into the window. Lestrade had joined them for a drink as soon as Moran's arrest was completed.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Lestrade said. He was sitting in John's armchair, warming himself by the fire.

Sherlock groaned. "What, Lestrade? What could you possibly not understand?"

"Claudie."

"What?"

"Claudie. The little girl that was snatched. The one that screamed when she saw your face. Why did she do that?"

"Oh that would have been easy," John replied. "All Moriarty had to do was to convince them that they were being moved for their own good. They had to watch out for the bogeyman though, and he looked just like this, and then show them a picture of everyone's favourite detective. He then gave them a mountain of chocolate to show that he really was on their side, and went off to hunt the evil man himself."

Sherlock nodded. "The whole point of the kidnap was to discredit me with the force," Sherlock said. "He needn't have done anything elaborate or complicated. He just needed to do enough to make me look like the bad guy, and then watch how that seed grew."

"Huh," Lestrade replied. "Well, I was wrong. And once again, thank you for accepting my apology."

Sherlock nodded. "How was it with Briggs after John's little escapade?"

"A touch frosty, I have to admit. Only with him though. Most of the force loathes him too. John's a bit of a hero at the moment."

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"What will you do with our friend over there," he asked, nodding at the mannequin, which was sitting on the sofa next to Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said. "Stick it in the attic for now, I suppose. John could always use it for his own entertainment." He took a drink of his wine, and as he lowered his glass he was aware of several stares that were fixed on him. "What?" he asked.

"For John's entertainment?" Lestrade asked, with a smirk.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He frowned. "I annoy John; sometimes he wants to thump me for a while. Now he can do that. I just thought it might be therapeutic or something."

Lestrade sniggered and even Mrs Hudson was trying to hide a smile.

"You honestly don't know what you sound like, do you?" John said.

"No! What? Oh, wait. Is this one of those... Well, if you could all get your minds out of the gutter, please!"

John laughed. "Nope, I think Greg's gone for the evening."

"That reminds me," Lestrade said, through his laughter. "I must get the tape of John moving it from Mycroft. I'm gutted that I missed that in the flesh, as it were." He laughed again.

"I think John did very well," Mrs Hudson said. "Now if you'll all excuse me, I think I've had more than enough entertainment for one evening." She stood up and headed downstairs.

"Yeah, me too," Lestrade said. "I'm up early tomorrow to start questioning Moran. We've definitely got him for attempted murder, but I'll need to see what Mycroft wants done with him. Goodnight now. Thanks for the beer."

He left too.

John moved around to his own armchair and watched Sherlock stare at the fire for a while.

"So," he said. "What next?"

Sherlock startled and looked up at him. After a moment he shrugged.

"Well I was thinking of going to bed, actually. Tomorrow we'll see. I think it will take a while to rebuild my case load for a while, but until then, there's always Cluedo."


End file.
